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Palindrome: A Mystery Novel
Palindrome: A Mystery Novel
Palindrome: A Mystery Novel
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Palindrome: A Mystery Novel

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Palindrome

When both your past and future spell fear.

Award-winning author Stuart Woods has crafted a masterful novel no reader will soon forget. For years, Liz Barwick has been battered by her brutal husband, a famous pro football player. This time it takes an emergency room to keep her from death. Now the beautiful and talented photographer retreats to an island paradise off Georgia’s coast to find solitude—and herself.

As she becomes increasingly involved with the strange and handsome twin scions of the powerful Drummond family, she feels her traumatic memories begin to fade. But when a killer launches a series of gruesome murders, Liz discovers that there is no place to hide—not even in her lover's arms.

LanguageEnglish
PublisherHarperCollins
Release dateSep 7, 2010
ISBN9780062046512
Palindrome: A Mystery Novel
Author

Stuart Woods

Stuart Woods is the author of more than forty novels, including the New York Times bestselling Stone Barrington and Holly Barker series. An avid sailor and pilot, he lives in New York City, Florida, and Maine.

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  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    An early Woods, a monatrous villain, competent cops and interesting characters embedded in a very unique environment..
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    Liz Barwick is married to Baker Reynolds, pro-football player for the Atlanta Bobcats. She narrowly escapes with her life after being beaten and raped by her husband. She contacts a lawyer and gets a divorce. She accepts an assignment to go to Cumberland Island and photograph the island for her publisher who wants to write a book about the island. As she begins to feel safer on the secluded island, she learns that first her lawyer, then her publisher and his wife have been murdered. Liz knows all to well that her ex-husband is now looking for her again.The book is not without some suspense but also has a great deal of predictablitiy to it also. The only compelling character in the book is Cumberland Island itself.

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Palindrome - Stuart Woods

Prologue

Miller was wakened from his doze by a puff of hot air, redolent of freshly cut grass and newly disturbed dogshit. Someone had let in the July night.

He tried to lift his head from the examination table, but his stethoscope caught and snapped his head back onto the cushion. He freed himself, swearing under his breath; some unthinking person had disturbed his quiet evening in the Trauma Center of Piedmont Hospital. Miller froze when he saw who had opened the door.

A young woman—he thought she was young, anyway—stood in the hallway, dressed only in khaki shorts and a badly torn T-shirt. Her left hand was partly raised, and she held her elbow tightly against her ribs, making her left breast seem larger than the right, which was exposed. Thick brunette hair spilled down to her shoulders. Her face was nearly unrecognizable as human. Both eyes were swollen nearly shut, her nose was flattened, and her cheeks were the color of rotting meat.

She shuffled forward a step, then stopped. She did not turn her head or speak.

Miller got off the table and moved quickly toward her, snagging a gurney as he approached her. It’s all right, he said, taking her right elbow and steering her onto the stretcher. He turned toward the admitting desk and said emphatically, but not loudly, Nurse!

A young woman holding a cup of coffee looked up from the desk, then quickly moved toward the gurney.

In number two, Miller said, pushing the stretcher toward an examination room. Once there, he took a pulse while the nurse worked on a blood pressure. Pulse is thready, hundred and ten, he said.

Blood pressure is one twenty over seventy, the nurse recited.

We need to get her clothes off. Can you move that much? he asked his new patient.

No, the woman said, without moving her swollen lips.

Cut them off, he said to the nurse, who immediately went to work with the scissors.

Miller switched on a tape recorder. She’s got a fist-sized hematoma of the left breast; it’s twice the size of the right; multiple bruising of the abdomen; pain in the left chest. He listened with the stethoscope. Both lungs good. Can you lift your left arm?

No, the woman said. Hurts.

Let’s get stat chest, facial bone, and skull X rays; I want a CBC, blood typed and crossed; I want four units of whole blood ready. Start an IV with one thousand cc’s of normal saline.

While these things happened the woman lay perfectly still.

Another nurse came in with a clipboard. I need to get some information and a history, she said to the woman. Name?

There was no reply.

Ma’am, can you tell me your name?

Still no reply.

Is she conscious? the nurse asked Miller.

Miller moved to his patient’s head. Gently, he opened her mouth, took hold of her upper teeth and manipulated them. The maxilla is movable, he said. He bent close to her ear. Can you hear me?

Yes, the woman replied.

How did this happen? Did someone beat you up?

Yes.

Were you sexually assaulted?

Silence.

What were you beaten with?

Fists.

Miller took a deep breath. Do you know the man who did this?

Silence.

Miller turned to the nurse. Call the police.

No! the woman said with unexpected vehemence. No.

The police should be looking for whoever did this to you.

No. Miller shook his head at the nurse.

Car, the woman said.

Have a look outside, Miller said to a nurse. He conducted a pelvic examination and found vaginal bruising and tenderness. There was semen in her pubic hair, and he took a sample for a slide.

The nurse returned. There’s a Mercedes convertible out there. The motor was running. I parked it. She hung the keys on her clipboard and made a note of the license number.

Someone came in with the X rays.

Miller clipped them to a light box and peered at the chest. Good lungs. Two broken ribs. He looked at the head shots. Mmmm, he said. I want a plastic surgeon to see her. Who’s got the duty?

Griffin, a nurse said.

No! the woman on the table said.

Griffin’s good, Miller told her.

Harry Estes, she said.

He’s good, too. You know him?

Yes.

Can I tell him your name?

The woman said nothing.

Miller went to the desk, looked up a number, and dialed.

Hello? a sleepy man’s voice said.

Dr. Estes? This is Martin Miller in the Piedmont ER. I’ve got a woman here I’d like you to see.

Dammit, I haven’t got the duty! Can’t you read the list?

She asked for you. Says she knows you. What’s her name?

She won’t say.

What’s her condition?

She’s been raped and badly beaten; the eyes are swollen shut; there are lacerations about the cheeks and eyes; the nose is flat. X rays show the maxillary sinuses are full of blood. The maxilla is movable; I think she’s got a Le Fort three fracture.

What did you say she was beaten with?

Fists.

A Le Fort three is impossible.

When you’ve seen her you can tell me that.

I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.

Harry Estes lived near the hospital; he made it in twelve minutes. On the way he tried to think what woman among his patients this could be. His main practice was in Northside Atlanta, the most affluent part of the city. The women he treated came to him for breast implants or reductions, nose jobs, facelifts—the gamut of elective cosmetic procedures; occasionally, one was injured in a car accident. In his Northside practice he had never dealt with the results of a beating; no patient of his, to his knowledge, had ever been raped. He also consulted at Grady Hospital, the huge publicly operated facility on the south side of town. There, he could catch anything, and did. But Piedmont Hospital was the richest, most fashionable in the city. Who could this woman be?

Estes parked his car and walked into the hospital. Miller met him in the lobby.

Who is she? Estes asked. She still won’t say.

Is she sedated?

No, I wanted you to talk with her, first.

Estes entered the examination room and stopped short. He did not recognize the woman; her mother would not have recognized her. He had never seen anything like this. He bent over the table and spoke softly to her. It’s Dr. Estes, he said, soothingly. I’m going to take care of you, now; don’t worry.

Thanks, Harry, the woman said thickly.

Harry Estes was a rather formal man; only those patients who were his friends addressed him by his first name. He began to dread learning this woman’s identity. On pretense of taking her pulse, he took her left hand from under the sheet.

The woman gasped.

Sorry, I know those ribs are sore. We’ll get them taped in a little bit. She was not wearing a wedding ring, but there was a faint mark. She may have been wearing one until recently.

Estes peeled back the swollen eyelids. Green. The pupils contracted. Did you conduct a neurological examination? he asked Miller.

Yes. Normal. I didn’t think it necessary to call in a neurologist. Do you want one?

Not if you’re satisfied.

Manipulate the maxilla.

Estes opened the woman’s mouth, took hold of her upper teeth, and worked them back and forth. Her face moved with them. The woman’s whole facial structure had been separated from her skull. He tried to keep his voice low and calm. You’re right, it’s a Le Fort three fracture. I’ll suture now. He injected Xylocaine into the woman’s cheeks and left eyelid, then carefully closed four lacerations.

There, he said. You’re going to be just fine.

The woman’s face showed something like a smile. Not bad work for somebody with no forehand, she said.

Estes’s mouth dropped open. He knew in a rush who this was. He waved at a nurse. Give her one milligram of morphine intravenously.

Wait! his patient said.

Estes bent over her. What is it?

I want to see Al Schaefer. Nobody else. No name here.

Did you say Al Schaefer? Are you sure you don’t want Walt Hopkins? Schaefer was a hotshot trial lawyer who specialized in big criminal cases. Hopkins, he knew, was her lawyer.

Schaefer, she said. Nobody else.

All right, Estes said. Are you sure you don’t want … anyone else?

Nobody else.

Estes nodded at the nurse, who stood by with a syringe. She inserted it into the IV tube.

You sleep, now, darlin', Estes whispered to her. I’ll see you tomorrow.

His patient immediately relaxed.

Estes straightened. Get some ice on her face and that breast, tape the ribs, then I want her in intensive care. Note on her chart that she’s to have nothing by mouth. I want her to have a cranial CAT scan first thing in the morning; I’ll schedule her for surgery when I’ve seen that.

What’s her name? the nurse asked.

Admit her as … P. J. Clarke, he said, reciting the first name that popped into his mind. He’d had dinner at the New York bar the weekend before. Tell admissions not to badger her for insurance information or anything else. All her charges to my account, for the time being.

Whatever you say, Doctor, the nurse said, scribbling on her clipboard. The other nurse applied ice packs, then the patient was wheeled out of the examination room toward the elevators.

Let’s look at her X rays again, Estes said to Miller.

Miller switched on the light box.

She’s got a very hard head, Estes said, peering at the film. It’s a miracle she hasn’t got brain damage or, at the very least, a skull fracture, getting hit that hard.

I wouldn’t have thought a Le Fort three was possible from a blow with a fist, Miller said.

Neither would I. Neither would anybody, Estes replied, staring at the X rays. But it was no ordinary fist.

1

Schaefer presented himself at the main reception desk of Piedmont Hospital and was directed to the room. He walked to the elevator bank, pressed the button, and waited, standing ramrod straight. He was only five feet seven inches tall in his shoes, and he made every inch count.

A large man in an ill-fitting suit stood outside Room 808, looking bored. Schaefer presented himself, and the man cracked the door and said something to someone inside. The doctor wants you to wait a minute, the man said to Schaefer.

Schaefer, who was incapable of standing still, paced until a man came out of the room. Schaefer immediately placed him as one of several hundred Atlantans whom he thought of as the city’s establishment, and with whom he had few dealings, unless their sons or daughters got into trouble.

I’m Dr. Harry Estes, the man said. May we sit for a moment? He herded Schaefer toward a bench.

Schaefer arranged himself and made a point of not showing deference. I have to be somewhere at six, he said.

I understand, the doctor replied. It was good of you to make a house call, as it were.

Tell me, Doctor, Schaefer said, is your patient’s name really P. J. Clarke?

The doctor smiled slightly. I’m afraid that was a moment’s whimsy on my part. She did not want to give the hospital staff her name.

What is her name? Schaefer asked. That seems like a good place to start.

Yes, of course, the doctor mumbled, rearranging his white hospital coat. Her name is Elizabeth Barwick. In the wee hours of this morning she walked into the emergency room downstairs. She had been badly beaten and, apparently, raped. She declined to say who had beaten her, only that it had been done with fists. During the course of her emergency treatment she asked for me.

Had she been a patient of yours?

No. I knew her socially. She and I were members of a group who used to play tennis at a mutual friend’s house. I am a plastic and reconstructive surgeon. I think she knew she would need the services of someone like me at an early stage.

What was the extent of her injuries?

She had received extraordinary trauma to the face and head; she had two broken ribs; there was extensive bruising of the breasts and upper body; the vaginal area showed bruising and superficial bleeding. The emergency physician took what turned out to be a semen sample from her pubic hair. Excellent. What treatment has she been given?

Very little. She was X-rayed; her ribs were taped, and ice packs were applied to her face and left breast; I sutured four lacerations of the cheeks, eyelids, and forehead; she was sedated. She was X-rayed last night, and this morning she had a CAT scan.

Was there any neurological damage?

Remarkably, none.

What treatment do you plan?

I have her scheduled for reconstructive surgery the day after tomorrow. I want the swelling to recede a bit first.

What is her state of mind?

She is lucid and calm. She has been since she was admitted. I want her to see a psychiatrist, but she insists on waiting until after the surgery. I rather doubt she’s going to have much to say to him. She’s very contained.

Do you know why she asked for me?

No, the doctor replied, and something in his tone implied that he didn’t understand it, either.

Has she been photographed?

No.

I’d like it done immediately. It will be embarrassing for her, but legally speaking, it’s the single most important thing you can do for her right now. It should have been done before the ice was applied. You might make a note, Doctor, to photograph any patient with trauma inflicted by another person. The pictures will always be important later.

The doctor stood. I’ll see to it. You’re right, I should have done it earlier. He took off his glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose. Ironically, she’s a photographer, a rather good one.

Schaefer stood, too. I’d appreciate it if you’d also give me a written description of her injuries and the treatment required—and don’t leave out the psychiatrist.

I’ll go and dictate that right now and messenger it to you.

Who, besides you and me, knows she’s here?

Only a man named Raymond Ferguson. He published a book of sports photographs of her. She asked me to call him, but he hasn’t seen her yet.

Schaefer was surprised. No family?

Her parents are both dead. I’m not aware of any other relatives.

Is she married, Doctor?

Estes sighed. Yes. To a man named Baker Ramsey.

Schaefer’s eyebrows went up. The running back for the Bobcats?

That’s the one.

Do you know him?

Yes.

What do you think of him?

I once thought he was a fairly decent fellow. Recently, I’ve thought he was a jerk. Now, I think he’s a monster.

The room was lit only by sunlight reflected onto the ceiling by drawn Venetian blinds. It was more nicely furnished than most hospital rooms, but it was bare of anything connected with the occupant. There were no flowers, no clothes in the open closet, no books at bedside. There was only the long shape of a woman under the sheets. Most of her face was covered by dressings, and Schaefer was grateful for that. He pulled a chair over to the bed and sat down. Her eyes peeped out through slits.

Ms. Barwick, I’m Albert Schaefer.

She spoke like a ventriloquist, her lips barely moving, but her voice was surprisingly strong. Thanks for coming. Call me Liz.

I’m Al. I was wondering why you asked for me.

"My own lawyer is Walter Hopkins. If I had asked Walt to handle this, he’d have written a strong letter, then he’d have written another strong letter, and in a couple of years we’d have a resolution. I want this matter resolved now."

I understand. Please tell me what happened to you last night.

My husband came home and tried to beat me to death.

I see. Did you—please understand I have to ask some very blunt questions—did you provoke him in any way?

Yes. I told him I wanted a divorce.

That was all?

Yes. He didn’t seem to like the idea.

Of a divorce?

No, just of my telling him I wanted one. You understand, he wasn’t like this when I married him.

Schaefer got comfortable in his chair. Let me get some background, just to help me get a complete picture. Are you originally from Atlanta?

No, from a small town south of here called Delano.

How small?

A little under five thousand.

What did your father do there?

He worked for the railroad, until they moved most of the operations to another town, then he retired.

How did you end up in Atlanta?

I got a scholarship to the University of Georgia. I was a fine arts major there—photography.

Ramsey played for Georgia; is that where you met him?

"Yes, but I didn’t know him well there. It wasn’t until I moved to Atlanta after graduation and got a job as a photographer on the Constitution that I got to know Baker. I was on sports, and I began to see a lot of him. He was charming and funny and smart—not really what I’d expected a pro ball player to be. After about a year of seeing him, we got married."

Am I tiring you?

No. You have to understand that Baker was different then, a different person. But he wasn’t doing well on the team, and they were talking about trading him. That’s when things started to change.

Tell me about it. We’d been married about a year and a half when he started on an intensive weight program designed to put more muscle on him. He was tall, six-three, but light for pro ball—only about a hundred and eighty-five. The change in him was dramatic—physically and emotionally. He gained fifty pounds in an alarmingly short time. I read something in the paper about steroids, and I asked him about it.

What was his reaction?

He hit me.

Was this the first time?

Yes. Baker always had a cruel streak, I think, but he used it on the field and didn’t bring it home often. But he was obviously on steroids by this time, and it changed him. He became incredibly aggressive on the football field—very hard to stop. The team stopped talking about trading him and gave him a new contract. But he changed off the field, too.

He became more abusive?

More and more. I don’t know why I took it for so long—some perverted sense of loyalty, I guess. I began living this peculiar, introverted life. I didn’t see many friends, and all my energy seemed to go into just not making Baker angry. For the past two years I’ve been walking on tiptoe around him, and it was wearing me down. I had left the newspaper at Baker’s insistence, and I was working on a book of photographs. I would hide out in the darkroom as much as possible. Foolishly, I kept hoping that he’d go off the drugs and be his old self again. Then, in addition to the steroids, Baker started using cocaine, and he became downright explosive. And that brings us up to this week.

The other night, did he rape you, as well?

Yes, but I don’t think it’s necessary to go into that right now.

I think it’s better if you let me decide what’s necessary right now.

First, let me tell you what I want, and then you can ask me anything you think is pertinent, and I’ll answer fully.

All right, tell me what you want.

I want an immediate divorce; I want a legally enforceable undertaking from my husband that he will never see or speak to me again; I want my personal belongings from the house; and I want a quarter of a million dollars in cash.

Is that all? A quarter of a million dollars?

Oh, he’s got a lot more than that, but I figure that’s the maximum I can get from him without a fight, and I don’t want a fight. I just want it over.

What about your medical expenses? They’re going to be considerable.

I’m covered under his team medical insurance. Anything that doesn’t pay, I’ll handle out of my quarter of a million.

I think your demands are modest. I don’t see any problem in having them met right away.

That’s why I wanted you. I think the mere fact of your being my lawyer will intimidate Bake, make him move fast. You can add your fee onto the settlement.

All right, I’ll see what I can do. My fee is normally a third of the settlement, but I think we can achieve a net you’ll be happy with. I’ve asked Harry Estes to have your injuries photographed right away, before you improve any more. I’m going to need those photographs.

All right, she said evenly.

I need a photograph of you before … the incident, too.

Call my publisher, Ray Ferguson, at Buckhead Press. She gave him the number. He has a self-portrait I did for my new book.

All right. I think I have all I need. He stood up. Is there anything else I can do for you? Do you need anything?

Yes. When I get out of here, in a week or so, I’m going to need a furnished apartment for a few weeks. I’m going to need some clothes—jeans, size eight; a T-shirt; sneakers, size nine, just something to wear out of the hospital. She fumbled in a bedside drawer and held out some keys. My car is in the parking lot downstairs; it’s a silver Mercedes, the little convertible. I’d like you to sell it; it’s less than a year old, get what you can. My safety-deposit-box key is on the key ring, too, number 1001 at the Trust Company Bank. Clean it out; the title to the car is in there; so is Bake’s most recent financial statement. You should be able to use that to good advantage.

Okay, I’ll do all that. He scribbled his home number on his business card and left it on the bedside table. Call me, day or night, if you need anything, anything at all. My secretary’s name is Hilda; she’s a wonder; use her as your own; I’ll brief her.

Thanks.

You want me to call any friends?

No. No friends.

Schaefer walked to the door and paused. You understand, of course, that this is not a conventional way to proceed, but your position is strong, and you have me on your side. I’m immodest enough to tell you that I don’t think any other lawyer could pull this off without a lot of delays, but I think I can. If you don’t care how I do it.

Something like a laugh came from Elizabeth Barwick, and she twitched from the pain in her ribs. Believe me, she said, I don’t care how you do it.

Al Schaefer left the hospital parking lot and turned into Collier Road, listening to the hum of the twelve-cylinder BMW engine. He loved the sound, it helped him think. He thought now. At the Northside Drive traffic light, he tapped a number into the car phone and waited. The light changed and he drove on.

Stillson, Immerling, Hoyt, and Thomas, a woman’s voice said. Schaefer remembered the story, perhaps apocryphal, that the names Immerling and Hoyt had been transposed on the firm’s original letterhead. That had been more than fifty years ago, and the legend still lived.

Henry Hoyt, Junior, please, Schaefer said.

Mr. Hoyt’s office, a very serious secretary’s voice said. This is Albert Schaefer. Let me speak to Henry.

He may have already left for the day. May I ask what this is about?

Just tell him it’s urgent.

Who is it calling, again?

You heard me the first time. Put him on.

There was a pause while, Schaefer figured, Hoyt worried about the risk of snubbing him.

Finally, This is Henry Hoyt.

Schaefer deliberately skipped any pleasantries. Henry, you still represent the Atlanta Bobcats, don’t you?

Yes, I do, Hoyt drawled.

How long have you known me, Henry?

Irritably, I don’t know, Al, fifteen years?

Do you know me to be a serious person, Henry?

Near exasperation, Yes, Al, you’re a serious person.

Hoyt had good reason to know, Schaefer reflected; he had carved the man, his forty-eight partners, and his two hundred associates into a pretzel shape seven years before, in a huge personal-injury verdict against the firm’s biggest client. The case had tripled his billings.

Well, I’m serious now, Henry. Last night, one of your most expensive ball players tried to murder his wife, whom I now represent.

Weakly, What?

I won’t keep you in suspense, Henry. It was Bake Ramsey.

Involuntarily, Jesus Christ. He very nearly succeeded in the attempt. I’ve just seen the woman; she will never be the same again, physically or mentally.

Who knows about this, Al? Hoyt was recovering.

"I know about it, Henry; everybody wants to know. I’m not sure how long I can keep a lid on it."

It’s a little early in the game for threats, isn’t it, Al? You and I have to talk.

You and I and Bake Ramsey, tomorrow afternoon at two o’clock in my office. Not a minute later. I don’t want any team management there. I’ll expect you to be authorized to act.

I don’t know about that.

Oh, you’ve got plenty of time to explain it to them, Henry. If they balk, tell them that this attack probably took place because the team has been shooting old Bake up with steroids since well before last season.

That’s very dangerous talk, Al.

"It certainly is, Henry. Just two more things, then I’ll say good night: I want you to tell Baker Ramsey who I am, just in case he doesn’t know; then I want you to tell him that if he goes anywhere near his wife, I’ll make sure he doesn’t see the light of day for the

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